


Sycophants and Sinners

by shinobi93



Category: Doctor Faustus - Christopher Marlowe
Genre: Angst, M/M, post-play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:19:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinobi93/pseuds/shinobi93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer was gone. Nobody knew where.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sycophants and Sinners

**Author's Note:**

> This is set post-play, insofar that Mephistopheles and Faustus are in Hell, and it contains references to torture, as you might expect from something set in Hell.

Lucifer was gone. Nobody knew where.

To begin with, Mephistopheles hadn’t worried. You can’t expect the almighty regent of Hell to leave a note on the diabolical kitchen counter every time he nips out to tempt some souls, after all.

Later, he began to panic. Time was relative down there, but it had been long enough. Hell had protocols for what to do without a leader: they wouldn’t descend into anarchy. Beelzebub took charge, ordered the devils and the tortured souls around, but he didn’t really know what to do. Everyone kept deferring to Mephistopheles. He knew Lucifer best. It hurt how much that was readily accepted now.

Before they’d always muttered behind his back. Even in Hell, sleeping with the boss was a big deal. Plain old Meph, just your common devil, what the fuck had he done to get in Lucifer’s good books? They didn’t know the half of it.

Now, they looked up at him with sycophantic smiles, still terrified enough of their absentee leader to bow down to Mephistopheles as he sat languidly atop the fiery throne of Lucifer. It might seem disrespectful, but he couldn’t let go. Sending the Sins after people who looked at him wrong, condemning devils to bathe in hellfire for simply daring to suggest Lucifer wouldn’t return. No one defied his orders. Even Beelzebub made suggestions, not commands. They whispered in the burning shadows, wondering if their king had abdicated. How could they even think that? Lucifer wouldn’t abdicate: Hell was his pride and joy, his baby, the only thing he cared about. The only thing.

Could Lucifer die? Mephistopheles didn’t know. He’d asked him once, in a fit of post-coital courage, but the king of Hell had merely laughed, that enigmatic laugh of his that sent shivers down the metaphorical back of even the hardiest soul. You shouldn’t expect a straight answer from him. Meph wondered if Lucifer was afraid of death. Maybe one day devilish tricks wouldn’t be enough. Maybe that day had already come.

Hell would be fine, he knew. Someone tyrannical would rise up, if Beelzebub wasn’t good enough for the job. It was ironic, having to fall so far in order to rise above the legions of devils and demons and sinners. Stuck with Lucifer every one of them. Mephistopheles barely knew how to function any other way, without that terrible, awe-inspiring voice breathing down his neck, making demands and teasing out favours when his favourite devil pet was in a bad mood. You try falling out of Heaven and being damned for eternity: it’s enough to make you a bit tetchy sometimes.

When Mephistopheles had taken up his new position in Lucifer’s throne, the too big seat making it painfully obvious that something, someone, was missing, Faustus had taken to loitering not far away, gazing up at the devil who was his only acquaintance in Hell. The pathetic little human who’d spent twenty four years wasting his life with petty magic tricks and now was totally lost, if it wasn’t for his devil. Meph hated being Faustus’, or Faustus being his, however you looked at it. He belonged to one individual: the morning star, the bright fallen angel whose all-consuming presence had left a gaping hole in this ugly Hell now that it was gone.

“Sir, there’s a new bunch of traitors who don’t seem to be responding to the usual punishments,” reported some lowly devil, staring up at his despondent figure in fear. Mephistopheles twirled his claws around and sighed.

“Why, you insolent wretch, are you bothering me with this? Beelzebub’s in charge.” The scared devil gulped.

“He...he didn’t know what would be best, sir. He thought you being so...intimate with Him, you might know…” The useless thing trailed off.

“For fuck’s sake,” drawled Mephistopheles. “Be creative. Flambé their insides whilst they shriek out apologies, play colour by numbers on their skin with boiling oil and hellfire, whatever you want. Just leave me alone.”

It was ridiculous. Nobody had any ambition. Hadn’t they learnt anything from Faustus? Ambition and sin went wonderfully together, especially down there. Mephistopheles hadn’t gotten to where he was by sitting around chaining up sinners or jabbing them with daggers. Hell rewarded creativity, even if that involved seducing Lucifer. Or being seduced by him. Or both. Who knew? Functional relationships don’t exist in the world of fire and brimstone and perpetual screaming.

A few metres away, Faustus jerked around on the ground, as if pulled by invisible ropes. That was possible. Tortured souls are, well, tortured. Meph laughed, but it was a new laugh, not evil like before, but hollow and dead, dead even for a devil. The biggest, most enticing power in his whole existence was gone. Bright Lucifer, not so bright anymore, just empty space in this endless realm of Hell.

_“Hell hath no limits”_

He remembered those words he’d spoken to Faustus, back on Earth, trying to get across to the idiot just how monumental the action of selling your soul to Lucifer really was. No limits indeed. Not even the king’s departure could stop the eternal damnation. Hell could get worse. He’d never believed that could be possible, before. 

_“I think Hell’s a fable”_

Look at your fable now, Faustus. Mephistopheles knew how to spread lies, create rumours, manipulate both humans and devils with words. Lucifer had done it enough, after all. You’re so important to me, Meph. I couldn’t do without you. Yeah, right.

Filled with diabolical anger, Mephistopheles turned his attention to the figure on the floor. The broken soul, who’d paid the price just like he had. Every fiery caress seemed now to have been leading to this moment. Alone. No, he amended, not alone. Left with Faustus for company, who called him ‘sweet Mephistopheles’ and was struck dumb by even the simplest of tricks. Dependent Faustus. Who’d once desired a wife and now wanted just one iota of his attention.

Decisively, he raised up from the stolen seat and pulled Faustus up by the collar. Who didn’t want to be adored? He pressed his devilish lips against Faustus’, only for a few seconds, but Faustus screamed at the burning touch.

“It won’t always be like this,” he assured the once human figure. Hell tore aware at humanity, leaving shreds of it strewn across the burning floor. “You’ll get used to it.”


End file.
